


A Tale with Teeth

by twoscarypandas



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Fantasy, Gen, Hetabang 2020, Mystery, Oneshot, Western, centaur America, centaur Canada, everyone is a supernatural creature, extended oneshot, naga France, the rest are spoilers! - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:26:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23893792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twoscarypandas/pseuds/twoscarypandas
Summary: A western fantasy. There’s been a murder in a small town of the old west, and all evidence points to a vampire. Sheriff Alfred Jones, a centaur, must find the perpetrator before they kill again, with help from Deputy Matthew Williams, Ivan the undertaker, and Francis the innkeeper.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	A Tale with Teeth

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first of two stories I wrote for Hetabang 2020! My partner, DragonCatZombie, and I both love monsters so we traded stories/art with the same mythological characters. This is the one I wrote first, inspired by their concept drawings of America/Alfred as a centaur sheriff. [Check out their amazing art here!](https://dragoncatzombie.tumblr.com/post/616662110077943808/22-my-second-art-piece-for-the-hetabang-event)

“Fang marks. Blood drain. No obvious defensive moves,” says Alfred. He’s got all four legs folded under him so that he can examine the body of a blonde man, possibly a dwarf or a changeling judging by his size. The victim was discovered near the railroad earlier in the morning by Basch Zwingli, the elven station master, who sent his sister running to the sheriff’s office.

“This is sounding less and less like the usual bandit raid,” Matthew says with a nervous stamp of his left hind leg. He is both Alfred’s deputy and his brother. They share the same sand blonde hair and bay pinto pattern.

“It still might have been a robbery,” says Basch. “This poor fellow didn’t have much on him, but he’s well-dressed. There’s something familiar about him, too, but I can’t place the face.”

“It’s too early to jump to conclusions,” says Alfred. He dusts his hands off on his well-worn jacket and pushes himself back up on his hooves – being a centaur is great when he’s chasing down outlaws, but it makes it difficult to examine bodies or anything close to the ground.

There’s a different clatter of hooves as the undertaker arrives, his grey wagon drawn by a massive black stallion. The stallion is just a horse, as far as Alfred knows, but the undertaker himself is something else altogether. Ivan Braginski is intimidating at the best of times, even without considering his occupation. The bull’s horns that stick out from his hair add to his already impressive height, and his long coat doesn’t quite cover his two goat-like legs. He might have been some classification of satyr, were it not for his strange aura and cold magic.

“I hear we’ve got a new customer,” Ivan says as he climbs out of the wagon. “Will you be needing them on ice?”

“Yes, thank you,” Matthew says.

Ivan blows softly over the victim’s body. It freezes instantly, and Alfred barely has time to step out of the way. He stamps his front legs to get rid of the chill. “Watch it!”

“Sorry, sorry,” Ivan replies with a benign smile that says he’s really not sorry at all.

He and Alfred have clashed a number of times, but they’ve been forced to work together so often during Alfred’s tenure as sheriff that the two have developed a mutual respect. That doesn’t stop Alfred from finding the man incredibly strange. He’s never understood what made a family from the coldest regions of the north move to the heat of the west, and he doubts he ever will. Ivan and his sisters are not particularly forthcoming about their history.

“Will you be much longer, gentleman?” Basch asks, glancing at his pocket watch. “I don’t mean to be indelicate, but there’s a train due within the hour. I’d rather have this…unfortunate soul cleared out before we get any travelers.”

“Who is it, anyway?” Ivan asks, peering at the body. “I don’t recognize their measurements at all.” Everyone in town is measured by the Braginskis: by Katya, the nurse, at birth, then by Natalia, the seamstress, and finally by Ivan.

Matthew holds up a letter, a handkerchief, and a wad of cash – everything they found in the victim’s pockets. “We don’t know. The letter is addressed to ‘my darling’ and signed with the initials H.R.E. Is that familiar?”

“No one comes to mind,” says Ivan.

“Can you make anything of the body?” asks Alfred.

Ivan hums as he looks over the victim. He’s a good consult on mysterious deaths, given that he deals with so many bodies. “The wounds are obvious, but I’ll have to conduct a full examination to see if exsanguination is the true cause of death. There are several who could make such marks, including something more innocuous like a wild animal. But, of course, the most obvious would be…”

“A vampire,” says Alfred. Most vampires are ousted from towns as soon as they’re discovered. No one wants a blood drinker around.

“We don’t know for sure yet, Al,” says Matthew, ever the voice of reason. “Mr. Zwingli, how many people usually come on the night train?”

“Not many. A few nocturnal guests and some deliveries. The midnight train only comes once a month. That was two days ago, now,” Basch replies.

“And who arrived on that train?”

“Two strangers. I can’t recall their names. I’d have to check the manifest,” says the station master.

Alfred sends Matthew a pointed look. Matthew sighs. “Have any _other_ trains arrived in the last few days?”

“Certainly,” Basch replies. He looks at his pocket watch again. “I can get you a copy of the manifest and traveler details, but the next train…”

“Yes, of course. Mr. Braginski, you can take the body. Deputy Williams and I will clean up and have one more look around,” says Alfred. “Then we’ll go to the inn.”

XXX

The Silver Scale isn’t far from the train station. It’s a two-story building with a wide front porch and signs bidding weary travelers to stop for rest, food, and drink. Alfred and Matthew pause beside the ramp leading up to the porch and stamp their hooves, trying to get some of the dirt out before heading inside.

It’s well into the morning now, so the inn’s main room is filled with customers and the delicious smell of breakfast. Alfred looks over the room, trying to see if any of the guests look out of place. None of them stand out, although he does spot a familiar face darting between tables with a full plate of eggs and bacon. Kiku is a kitsune, so he’s small and quick, but it’s hard to miss all nine of his white tails.

Matthew spots him quickly as well, and trots over. “Morning, Kiku,” he says with a tip of his hat.

Kiku sets the plate down in front of a guest, then turns to greet the centaurs. “Good morning. Can we get you some breakfast? There’s oats on the stove.”

“’Fraid we’re here on business,” says Alfred. “Is Francis in the kitchen?”

Kiku nods. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”

“Actually, you could probably help us, too,” Matthew adds. Francis is the inn’s owner and operator, but he needed to hire help once the train station was operational. Kiku helps him cook, clean the rooms, and handle customers.

“Of course. But, as you can see, we are very busy this morning – is there any chance this can wait?” says Kiku.

Matthew hesitates. “We really shouldn’t delay.”

“I could get you some breakfast while you wait. Oats and maple sugar, on the house for the law at work,” Kiku offers.

It’s the free food that sells it for Alfred. “Done!”

Kiku smiles, his soft ears swerving on his head as a bell at the front desk rings. “Get a table, and I’ll bring some over as soon as I can.”

Alfred and Matthew move to one of the high tables with no chairs, built for folk like them who eat on their feet (or, as in Francis’ case, have no feet at all). “I still don’t think we have time for a break like this,” Matthew complains. “Maybe I should head out while you stay here.”

Alfred raises an eyebrow. “And miss out on maple sugar oats?”

“…you make a good argument.”

Alfred grins. He knows his partner well.

It’s not long before Francis himself slithers out of the kitchen, tray in hand. He’s a naga with striking blue scales covering his tale, back and arms. He makes a few stops on his way over, handing out dishes and chatting with customers, before he finally reaches their table. “Sheriff Jones, Deputy Williams! What a pleasure to have you join us this morning.”

“As we told Kiku, it really isn’t social,” Matthew says apologetically.

Francis sets down two plates of sweet-smelling oats and waves off the comment. “I know, I know. But if the rumors I hear are true, you boys have already been hard at work. You deserve a break before we get down to business.”

Alfred whistles. “Word travels fast around here.”

Francis smiles, his forked tongue darting out between sharp teeth. “And all travelers come to my door. Enjoy your breakfast slowly, then come back to the kitchen and I’ll tell you what I’ve heard.”

An hour later, Alfred and Matthew stand in the inn’s kitchen, helping with the dishes despite Francis’ protests. “Consider it an exchange for the meal and for your information,” says Alfred.

“Very well,” Francis relents. “Far be it from me to turn away an extra set of hands or hooves when we’re booked full.”

“Booked full, huh? Have you got any vam-” Matthew elbows him in the side, and Alfred adjusts his words. “ _Predators?_ ”

“Such as myself?” Francis chuckles, the sound rasping around his tongue and teeth. “Plenty. You know that I turn away no one. But I assume you are looking for someone who might explain the body Mr. Braginski carted away this morning. Don’t give me that look – Kiku rises early, and Miss Zwingli got thirsty before she made it back to the station.”

Matthew frowns. “It’s not a secret, really. We just don’t want people to panic. Are you missing any guests this morning?”

Francis sets aside his rag and taps a long, pointed fingernail against his chin. “There are several who never came down for breakfast, but that’s not unusual. Folk like to sleep off their travels and their hangovers before the next train comes through. And then there’s our nocturnal guests.”

Alfred perks up. “Nocturnal?”

“Is that important?”

“It might be,” says Matthew. “What can you tell us about them?”

“Well, there are only three right now who seem to be naturally nocturnal. I’ve just hired one of them as a bartender, at least for a trial period. He’s a werecat looking for a job away from livestock, and an excellent storyteller. His name is Heracles Karpusi,” says Francis.

“Huh. I’ve met a couple werewolves, but never a werecat,” says Alfred.

“What about the others?” asks Matthew.

“Berwald Oxenstierna is a troll. He’s traveling to meet his new wife, who owns some land and wanted someone strong to help start a farm. He’s not the talkative sort, but he showed us a picture of the wife. He’s a cute little thing.”

Alfred raises an eyebrow. “The wife’s a man?”

“Don’t be rude.”

“Sorry, just…surprised.”

Francis shrugs. “I do suspect a translation error, but I didn’t ask. I’ll let you know the outcome whenever the wife arrives. In any case, Mr. Oxenstierna cuts a frightening figure, but his devotion to the marriage seems sincere. Whether it is the man he loves or the idea of a new life, I do not know.”

“I’m not certain about my last guest, either. His name is Arthur Kirkland. He’s very proper, and he seems to think the rest of us very lowly compared to his city manners. Frankly, I dislike the man. He’s awfully cheap for someone who flaunts their wealth. He won’t let me clean the room and he doesn’t eat or drink a thing, so I don’t know what he’s doing to stay alive. He comes down after dark and goes off to ‘business meetings’ with nothing but his bag.”

“Could be our vampire,” Alfred says lowly.

“Werecats aren’t particularly delicate either,” says Matthew. “And if the killer is clever, then they’d shift the blame.”

“Still, it’s the best lead we’ve got. Thanks, Francis,” says Alfred.

“Anytime,” he replies. “In fact, why don’t you come back after sunset? You can talk to all three of them then. If they leave, I can get you into their rooms.”

“Sounds perfect. That gives us time to check with Braginski and get a few other things done,” says Alfred.

“I’m sure you have plenty to manage. Thank you for your time,” says Matthew. “Oh – and we should talk to Kiku, too.”

“Of course,” says Francis. He takes the last of the dishes from Matthew’s hands and rises higher on his tail to reach the top shelves. “I need to head to the general store anyway, so tell him to take the front. It seems like we’re always out of something.”

“We really should split up this time. If both of us hang around it will be too obvious. I’ll stay and talk to Kiku and some of the other guests around here,” says Matthew.

Alfred nods; there’s not much reason to stay now that the food is gone and their debt is paid. Matthew is better than him at sleuthing, anyway, thanks to his unassuming manner. “I’ll go visit Mr. Braginski, then. See if he’s got anything for us.”

XXX

The Braginski house on the edge of town is as strange as its residents. It looks like three houses cobbled together by an amateur. There are three horses out front: the black stallion that pulls Ivan’s hearse, a gray gelding that transports Natalia’s fabric, and a white mare that carries Katya to her patients. Alfred has met both sisters, but never at the same time. One is always sleeping while the other is awake. Ivan, on the other hand, seems not to sleep at all.

It is Natalia who greets Alfred this afternoon, her long, callused fingers creeping around the edge of the door. She only opens it enough for him to see one horn and one ice blue eye.

“Brother is in the workshop. Go around the back; I can’t have you dragging dust over my wool.” With that, the door shuts in his face.

“Nice to see you too, Miss Natalia,” Alfred mutters to the door. He follows the well-worn tracks of Ivan’s wagon around the side of the house. There’s another door here, as well as a disconcerting number of wooden coffins on display. Just as he raises his hand to knock, the door swings open, letting out a chill breeze that stirs the stifling heat around Alfred.

“Come in, sheriff. I’m just about done with this one,” Ivan calls from within.

Alfred hesitates for a moment on the threshold, his equine instincts telling him to _run, run far and fast_ from the stench of death and sawdust. He shakes himself and holds onto his hat as he ducks inside.

The morning’s victim is on the table in front of Ivan, covered only by a white blanket. Ivan shuts his notebook with an audible snap and turns to Alfred, goat hooves clacking against the wooden floor. “You have lost your partner, it appears,” he says.

“We split up to take care of a couple leads,” Alfred replies.

“How smart. Deputy Williams’ idea, I presume?”

Alfred snorts. “I didn’t come here to get insulted. What have you learned?”

“That there may be a monster in our town after all. Look here,” says Ivan. He shifts the blanket back so that Alfred can see the full extent of the victim’s pale body. “Do you know about livor mortis?”

“Dude, I’m an herbivore. I’ve never had liver,” Alfred replies.

“No, not liver, _livor_. It’s from Latin, it’s…never mind. The word isn’t important.” Ivan lets out an exasperated sigh. “What is important is this: corpses change color as the blood settles. It looks like a bruise once one has been dead for long enough. But what do you notice about our friend here?”

Alfred frowns and leans over the body. “I don’t see any sizeable bruising. Just a few on his neck and wrist, like someone grabbed him.”

“Yes,” says Ivan. “And those, I believe, are perimortem – ah, just before death. The rest of his body is pale as snow. There wasn’t a drop of blood left in him to settle. Whoever did this drained him completely.”

“Alright, it _is_ a vampire!” Alfred gleefully exclaims. Ivan raises an eyebrow, and he coughs. “Er, and now we’ll make sure no one else has to suffer, God rest his soul.”

“Vampires aren’t the only blood drinkers, you know. Nor is there any evidence that someone actually _drank_ his blood,” says Ivan.

“There wasn’t any blood on the scene. If someone drained him and didn’t drink it, then there would have been blood everywhere. Either that, or someone moved him. There weren’t any prints or tracks around the body, though. The killer would have to be someone who can fly, and who has enough strength to carry a man,” says Alfred. “Vampires float, right?”

Ivan shrugs. “Katya is more familiar with the anatomy and abilities of different folk than I am.”

“How about the bite?”

Ivan adjusts the body so that the man’s neck is easy to see. The two fang marks are just as obvious as they were in the morning, but Ivan also traces his finger alongside them to point out a pattern of shallower marks. “I’ve never seen a vampire’s victim in person, so I can’t say what did this for sure. This reminds me of a viper, or a very large spider. But see how the puncture isn’t perfect? He was able to pull away before the perpetrator really sunk their teeth in. That seems inexpert, as far as vampires go.”

“Could be a young vamp then, someone newly turned who can’t control themselves.” Alfred groans. “Damn. What do I even do with that kind of case? It’s one thing if we have a ruthless bloodsucker on our hands, it’s another if we’ve got a confused kid.”

“I wouldn’t worry,” Ivan says pleasantly. “You’re the sheriff, not the judge or jury. Leave justice to the people. Otherwise you would have hung me long ago, hmm?”

“I’m still considering it,” says Alfred, but there’s no longer any truth to the threat. “Oh, that reminds me. There’s one more thing I could use your help with…”

XXX

Alfred meets up with Matthew at their office, halfway between the Silver Scale and the Braginski’s house. It’s a small town, and the sheriff’s office is small to match. They have one room in the front that just fits two desks and a locked cabinet, and there’s a heavy door that leads to a few jail cells in the back. None of them are currently occupied, even by the usual cast of drunk-and-disorderly who end up in the sheriff’s custody at least once a week. It’s a good thing, too, because it means they can talk freely about the case. Alfred goes first, sharing what he learned from Ivan.

By the time he finishes, Matthew’s expression is grim and his ears are tilted back. “It sounds like you were right after all, Alfred.”

Alfred grins. “Aren’t I always?”

“No, no you are not.” Matthew snorts. The tension lifts for a moment. Any of the town’s residents would agree that being brothers is the centaurs’ best and worst qualification for their jobs.

“So what’d you learn from Kiku?” Alfred asks.

“It took a while to get much out of him. You know Kiku, he doesn’t like to gossip. Eventually he told me pretty much the same thing as Francis,” Matthew replies. “However, he’s the one who cleaned the guests’ rooms last night. He went into the businessman’s room just to empty the trash, and he was ‘concerned’ by something he found, right out on the table.”

“Blood?” Alfred asks eagerly.

Matthew shakes his head. “Land deeds. And maps. Maps that include this town. Alfred, do you remember the victim’s letter?”

“H.R.E., right?”

“Right. I still don’t know who that is, but I noticed something else.” Matthew digs through his jacket and pulls out the letter, smoothing it out over his desk so that both of them can see. The paper is crisp and the ink is clear; it wasn’t written long before its owner’s demise. Matthew drags his finger across it, passing by greetings and a few flowering declarations of love until he finds the line: _“I have one last piece to sell, and then I’ll come home to you. There’s an interested company sending a gentleman out here. I’ll be on a train by the end of the week if his offer is good, and this mess will be behind us. I promise.”_

“You think this is a business deal gone wrong?” Alfred asks.

“Kiku definitely saw Mr. Kirkland leave the inn. He took his case with him and was dressed for business, so he thought it was a meeting of some sort. He wasn’t sure who with. Kiku went home around midnight, and never saw Mr. Kirkland return,” says Matthew.

“Did you talk to the other guests? Did they see anything?”

“I talked to them,” says Matthew. “No one knew much about Mr. Kirkland. They said Mr. Oxenstierna – that’s the troll – was intimidating, but very polite. A troll attack doesn’t match what you learned from Ivan, anyway.”

“How about the werecat?”

“According to Kiku he’s working the bar in exchange for room and board. He was still there when Kiku left for the night, so there’s a chance he saw something more,” says Matthew.

“You don’t think he’s a suspect?” asks Alfred.

Matthew shakes his head. “It’s the same as the troll. No werecat could make such precise wounds. If he went feral, he would’ve torn out the man’s throat. Besides, Mr. Karpusi was at the inn all night.”

“Do we have any proof that Kirkland is a vampire?”

“He’s nocturnal and he’s described as ‘extremely pale.’ Francis claims he never eats or drinks anything from the inn, and Kiku said that he asked before entering the inn. He thought the man was just polite, but maybe he was really seeking an invitation. Oh, and then there’s this…”

Matthew reaches into another pocket and produces a page torn from the inn’s guest book. Beside the name _Arthur Kirkland_ is the cost of a week’s room, with special instructions written in a neat, looping hand: _Do not enter during daylight._

Alfred lets out a low whistle. “Damn. This idiot is practically setting up the case for us.”

Matthew frowns. “I noticed that, too. Doesn’t it seem a little _too_ easy?”

Alfred shrugs. “We may be on the map thanks to the train station, but we’re still out in the middle of nowhere. I don’t think we’ve got criminal masterminds.”

“They don’t need to be a mastermind to be dangerous,” says Matthew.

“That’s true,” Alfred replies. “If we’re going to confront this guy tonight, we’d better be prepared. Rest up for a couple hours, then I’ll trade with you.”

XXX

Alfred and Matthew return to the inn at twilight, when the last of the sun is dipping behind the distant mountains. The place is even busier than it was in the morning, a mix of guests and townsfolk stopping by for dinner, drinks, and conversation. Francis slithers between the tables, amicably chatting with customers as he delivers food. There’s an unfamiliar face behind the bar, a shaggy young man with all the mannerisms of a cat, and a huge man sitting at one barstools, a tail like a lion’s swinging gently over the back. He nudges Matthew and the two make their way towards the bar.

“Evening gentlemen,” the bartender says. “What can I get you?”

“Give us the house special,” says Alfred, curious as to how quickly this newcomer has picked up his trade.

“Two snakebites, coming up,” says the man. “Two-fifty each.”

“Nonsense!” announces Francis, appearing beside them so suddenly that Alfred shies away. The naga can move near soundlessly, especially in a crowded inn. He seems to take particular pleasure in using his tail to hang from the rafters and greet Alfred upside-down.

“Jeez, Francis, you gotta stop doing that! One of these days I’m going to kick you.”

Francis laughs and claps a hand over Alfred’s shoulder. “Sorry, sorry. Here, let me introduce you to Mr. Heracles Karpusi, our trial bartender. Mr. Karpusi, this is Sheriff Jones and Deputy Williams. Their drinks are on the house.”

“A pleasure – and just Heracles is fine,” says Heracles. He fills two mugs with beer and cider and slides them over the bar.

Alfred lifts his in toast, and Matthew hesitates just long enough to mutter, “You need to stop giving us free stuff. We’re supposed to be impartial.”

“If there’s a murderer in my inn, I will treat those who catch him to as much alcohol as they please,” Francis replies. His voice is soft, but Heracles’ eyes dart in their direction.

“We haven’t caught him yet,” Alfred says. Then he brightens and bumps Francis’ scaly hip with the bulk of his equine half, gently pushing him away. “Now stop flirting, it’s distracting us from the job!”

“Distracting, am I? We can’t have that.” Francis winks. Then he laughs and slithers toward the kitchen, waving over his shoulder. “Just give a shout if you need anything else.”

“Will do,” says Alfred. He takes a drink, counting down the seconds until…

“’Scuse me.” It’s not the voice Alfred is expecting. It’s low and gravely, like rocks tumbling down a hill, and it most certainly doesn’t come from the bartender. He and Matthew both turn to the troll, who is watching them from the other end of the bar.

“Evening, sir,” Matthew says with a quick raise of his hat. “How can we help you?”

“Berwald Oxenstierna,” says the troll, holding out his hand. His huge hand completely covers Matthew’s when he shakes it, but his grip is gentle. “Don’t mean to pry, but I couldn’t help overhearing. Is there really a murderer at this inn?”

Matthew glances at Alfred, who gives him a slow nod. Alfred turns and leans his top half against the bar, drink in hand. He’ll let Matthew do the talking while he keeps watch over the rest of the inn.

“We don’t know for sure,” Matthew says. “Why? Have you seen something?”

Berwald shakes his head. “Just worried about m’wife. He said he’d ride up from the farm and meet me here in his last letter. He’s late. Should’ve been here yesterday.”

Matthew sets down his drink as if the glass weighs a hundred pounds. “You got a picture? Maybe we’ve seen him around, if the farm is close.”

Berwald nods and quickly produces a thick envelope from the breast pocket of his vest. It has several letters tucked inside. The troll thumbs through them as he explains, “He put an ad out in the city paper a few months back, lookin’ for a spouse to help run his farm. We’ve been exchangin’ letters ever since. Can’t wait to meet him.”

Heracles raises an eyebrow at that. “I thought you said he was your wife already.”

Berwald shrugs. “We’ve got the papers signed. The officials were too fool to pay attention to anything beyond the words ‘husband and wife’, and I’ll break anyone who’s got a problem. No offence, deputy.”

“None taken,” says Matthew. “Unless you broke someone on the way here…?”

“Nah,” says Berwald, shaking his head. “Mostly I keep to myself. Wouldn’t’ve said anything to anyone, but I’m gettin’ worried.”

“Are you kidding? You had two drinks last night and you couldn’t stop talking about this wife of yours,” Heracles chuckles.

Berwald only grunts in response, finally plucking a small photo from the folds of a letter. He hands it to Matthew. Matthew looks at it warily, and then lets out a breath of relief. “Oh, I’ve seen him before! He comes to town every month or so for supplies. More often when he’s got a harvest to sell.”

“Have you seen him recently?” Berwald asks hopefully.

Matthew shakes his head and hands the picture off to his partner. “No, I’m sorry. Have you, Alfred?”

Alfred looks down at the photo. The man in the picture is small and blonde, just like the victim at the station, but there’s something different in the shape of his face and eyes. He recognizes him as one of the farmers who come to town from time to time to trade. It’s been a while since he’s seen any of them, now that he thinks about it. Alfred returns the picture and takes a long drink. “No, I haven’t. Maybe he was just delayed. Not all the roads around here are well-maintained.”

Berwald nods, tucking the photo and letters away. “I hope he’s okay. S’been just me and Hanatamago for a long time now.”

“Your horse?” Alfred asks, trying to hide a wince. He can feel his own withers ache at the thought of carrying a troll.

Berwald shakes his head. “M’dog.”

Heracles snorts. “That’s not a dog. I don’t know what it is, but it is _definitely_ not a dog.”

“You just don’t like her ‘cause you’re a werecat,” Berwald retorts.

“That’s a common presumption. I don’t really care either way,” Heracles says. He lets out a yawn and stretches, his long nails tapping against the bar.

“Long night already?” Matthew asks.

“Not really. Last night was longer. That’s what you’re here to ask about, isn’t it?” says Heracles. “Rumors about a murder have been flying around here all evening. It wasn’t me, for the record. I don’t have the best control of my instincts, but I’ve never killed anyone. It’s nowhere near the full moon, anyway. When the time comes, I promise I won’t be anywhere near your town or any other.”

“Have you seen anything unusual?” Matthew asks, filing away the case of the lonely werecat for another day.

Alfred’s ears swivel towards them, even though his eyes remain on the other patrons filtering in and out of the nightly festivities, Francis or Kiku occasionally darting among them. Some come up to the bar and order drinks from Heracles, but a quick glare from Alfred sends them back to their tables. They don’t need eavesdroppers for this.

Heracles leans against the bar and hums. “Hard to say what counts as unusual. I’ve only been in town for a week. Although I did hear Mr. Oxenstierna get into a fight with that fellow from the city last night.”

“He insulted m’wife,” Berwald growls. “Said there was no way he’d be able to run a farm like that, even with my help.”

“Oh? What can you tell us about the man?” says Matthew.

“Not much,” Berwald replies. “His name’s Kirkland. We were on the same train from the city, out of the sun in the blackout car. Didn’t take much notice of him until we got off at the same stop. We exchanged a few pleasantries on the walk here. Hana didn’t like him much; she growled.”

“Her bite is worse, I’m sure,” Heracles mutters.

“You don’t know her. She’s sweet. She doesn’t like being cooped up in the stables, that’s all. Mr. Bonnefoy doesn’t let dogs inside,” says Berwald.

“Or hellhounds.”

“She’s not a –” Berwald sighs and shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter what she is. Point is, Hanatamago’s got a good nose and she didn’t like Mr. Kirkland. Now that I think about it, I don’t think Mr. Bonnefoy likes him either. At first I figured he was grumpy since we woke him, but he’s at least partially nocturnal.”

“That’s true,” Heracles adds. “Kiku takes the earliest shifts. Before I came along, Mr. Bonnefoy stayed up alone if he knew there was a night train due. He’s gone out most nights since I’ve been here. Kiku says he likes to walk – er, can you call it walking? – just so he can get out of the inn for a while.”

“I think he takes care of the stables, too,” says Berwald. “The horses were real calm when he showed me a place for Hana. He’s pretty good with prey animals for a naga.”

Heracles smirks. “Maybe he hypnotizes them with flirting.”

“We’re not horses!” Matthew exclaims, a hot blush on his cheeks.

Alfred just laughs. “Fran – er, Mr. Bonnefoy is like that with everyone. But you said he didn’t like Mr. Kirkland?”

“He had this sour look on his face the whole time they were talking,” Berwald replies. “It went away once Mr. Kirkland was upstairs in his room. Maybe it’s just that Kirkland is a little…”

“Snobby,” Heracles finishes. “Ask anyone here who’s met the man. He acts like he’s better than the rest of us. He ordered a glass of top-shelf brandy after a business meeting the other night, and he called it ‘vile stuff.’”

“ _After_ a meeting?” Matthew asks. “What kind of meeting?”

“I don’t know. But you can ask him yourself.” Heracles points to the stairs. The man coming down is exactly as the others described: a pale man in nice suit, his blonde hair impeccably combed. He walks with his spine perfectly straight, so that he seems to nearly glide down the stairs. There’s a leather case in his hand.

“I think it is about time we had a chat,” says Alfred. He sets his empty mug down on the bar top and trots over to the stairs. “Evening, Mr. Kirkland.”

Arthur stops on the last step and looks up, red eyes meeting Alfred’s. “Good evening. You have me at a disadvantage, Mr.…?”

“Jones. Sheriff Jones,” he says.

“Ah. Is there something I can help you with, sheriff?”

“How about we have a drink and talk about it?” says Alfred, gesturing to a clear table in the corner.

“I don’t drink,” Arthur replies.

“Funny. I heard you were complaining about the brandy last night,” says Alfred.

Arthur frowns. “I can’t say I’m surprised the bartender is a gossip, but it is a disappointment. I guess it’s true that there’s no privacy in these small towns.”

“We don’t take well to liars,” says Alfred, eyes narrowing.

“I don’t drink because I find most alcohols distasteful. I give it another try once a year or so, but it hasn’t been the same since my youth. Is that all, I offended Mr. Bonnefoy’s brandy? Lawmen must not have much to do around here.”

“We have plenty to do. You don’t have to drink, but we are going to talk,” says Alfred.

Arthur pulls out a gold-plated pocket watch, glances at it, and sighs. “If we must. I’ve got business to attend to, so I hope this won’t take long.”

Alfred leads him over to the corner table. It’s a little low for Alfred, but it’s away from most of the people, and Alfred is able to position himself so that he can see Matthew at the bar. They’ll have the man trapped between them if he tries anything. The weight of Alfred’s gun at his hip is reassuring, even if he’s not sure he can outdraw a vampire.

“What exactly is your business here?” he asks.

“My own.” Arthur takes his seat gracefully. “However, I am well aware you won’t leave it alone until I tell you more. I am in the business of land, Sheriff Jones. I pay poor folk out here more money than they’d make in ten years, and then I sell the property to someone who knows it’s true worth. It’s a fair deal all around.”

“Is that what you told Mr. Oxenstierna?” Alfred asks.

“Who – oh, the troll? Seems I’ve managed to offend everyone around this town in record time. Yes, I spoke to him. He showed me some descriptions of his partner’s farm. It’s much too big for a couple. I offered to take a look at it, make a good price so they could set up somewhere smaller. He refused. He’s rather defensive of a man he’s never met and a place he’s never lived. That’s a troll for you, I suppose,” says Arthur.

“In my experience, you can’t judge folk by their background,” says Alfred.

Arthur smirks, showing just a hint of sharp white teeth. “Is that how a couple half-cowboys became the law around here?”

“We’re quick on our feet and quicker to draw,” Alfred replies. His tail twitches with irritation.

“I bet you are,” says Arthur.

Alfred grits his teeth. “How about your last business meeting? The staff said you weren’t back until late last night.”

“I’m nocturnal, as I’m sure you’ve already deduced through your _excellent_ sleuthing. I conduct all my business at night. It’s not a crime, and I’m not the only one here allergic to the sun. Your troll friend would turn to stone.”

“And you?” Alfred asks.

“Dust,” Arthur says. He flicks at a speck of dirt on his sleeve, as if the state of his suit bothers him more than a discussion of his own demise. “I had intended to bring my meeting here last night, out of consideration for a client who might need more light than I. I waited several hours, but he never showed. It’s disrespectful, really. We’ve been corresponding for months.”

Alfred can see the victim’s face in his mind’s eye, the twin marks standing out on his neck. “Any idea why?”

“Cold feet, or perhaps sabotage. I’ve received a rather chilly welcome in this town. Not that it bothers me much,” Arthur replies. “I’ll conduct my business and be on my way. I’ve a few other towns to visit before I can return to my clients in the city.”

“To sell off our land to the highest bidder, eh?” Alfred says.

Arthur steeples his fingers and leans in. “Where exactly did _your_ land come from, anyway? Did you ever stop to think about who was here before you? I, at least, pay a price for your stolen goods, and see this world for what it is.”

“And what is it, Mr. Kirkland?”

“Survival of the fittest, Sheriff Jones.” Arthur takes out his watch again, then stands. “I really must be going. I don’t want to keep a potential client waiting – unless you can save me some time and tell me if you’ve already scared them off?”

“We’re not done here!” Alfred shouts, drawing a bit too much attention from the other patrons. The crowd has thinned as the hours since sunset passed, but there are still plenty of folk enjoying their drinks.

Arthur doesn’t turn back. He grabs a tall hat from the stand at the front and places it on his head. “I’ll return here when my business is concluded, you have my word as a gentleman on that. Unless you are planning to stop me by force, with no evidence, in front of all these fine people…?”

Alfred looks around, every eye on him. Matthew steps closer. His hand is near his gun, but he shakes his head at Alfred. They don’t want to instigate anything here with so many civilians. Alfred clenches his fist. “I’ll be waiting, Mr. Kirkland.”

“Much obliged,” Arthur says. He steps outside and the door swings shut behind him. With his exit, the tension bleeds out of the room and the chatter and music start up again.

“I don’t like this at all,” Alfred mutters. “He could kill again while we’re here waiting.”

“You think he’s our guy?” Matthew whispers.

“I’m sure of it,” Alfred replies.

“We could follow him,” Matthew suggests.

“He’d hear us coming. Damn these hooves, they make too much of a clatter. It’s too bad we can’t go around on our bellies, like…” Alfred frowns as he glances around the bar. “Say, where is Francis?”

“Kitchen?” Matthew suggests. “I haven’t seen him, but I’ve been watching you and Kirkland.”

“Dinner hours are over. Wait, didn’t Heracles say that he goes for walks at night?”

Matthew pales. “You don’t think…he knows it’s dangerous right now!”

Their hushed panic is interrupted when Kiku taps on Alfred’s hip, too short to reach the centaur’s shoulder. He’s got a ring of keys in his hand. “Francis asked me to give you access to Mr. Kirkland’s room if he went out. Personally, I think it’s invasive, but I suppose it can’t be helped.”

“Did he leave?” Alfred asks.

Kiku frowns. “With all due respect, you made quite the commotion about his exit.”

“Not Kirkland, Francis!”

“Ah. Yes, he did. He wanted to stretch his muscles,” Kiku replies.

“Kiku, this is really important. Where does Francis usually go?” says Matthew.

“Sometimes to the river, but he said he’d be quick tonight. I think he’s just going to the railroad and back.”

Alfred and Matthew share a horrified look, then bolt out the door.

The street outside is lit only by a few flickering lamps, leaving the centaurs at a disadvantage compared to a vampire’s night vision. They race ahead half-blind anyway; there’s no time to allow their eyes to adjust and they know the way between the inn and the station well. They were built to run, but Alfred’s never tried his speed against a vampire’s. Right now he has no choice but to stake his life on it – and Francis’.

Alfred isn’t sure that Arthur will actually attack Francis. It would be foolish to murder the town’s popular innkeeper directly after speaking with the sheriff, after all. He is sure, however, that _something_ will happen if the two run into each other. Arthur blames Francis for sharing his information with the law, and Francis could goad Arthur into an argument. In a fight between a naga and a pissed-off vampire, Alfred doesn’t know who the winner would be. He doesn’t want to find out.

There’s a shout from up ahead, just behind one of the last houses on the road. Alfred and Matthew turn towards the sound at a full gallop, hooves pounding over the dirt and leaping over obstacles. They skid to a stop just between the last two houses. There’s a tangle of bodies in the shadows, accompanied by hissing, snarling, and garbled shouts.

“That’s enough! Get on the ground and reach for the sky!” Alfred shouts. He draws his gun and points it at the shadows. The problem is that he can’t see well enough to aim.

“Sheriff, help!”

“Francis!” Alfred yells, squinting at the darkness. His eyes are starting to adjust, and he can just make out two figures struggling with each other, one long tail wrapped around the other.

“Take the shot!” Francis calls out. “I’ve got him, but I can’t hold him for long!”

“What? No, stop! He attacked _me_!” Arthur shouts.

“Pour l'amour de Dieu, sheriff, SHOOT!”

Just before Alfred squeezes the trigger, the area is illuminated. Matthew stands tall beside Alfred, raising a torch in one hand and his gun in the other. The tables have turned now that both naga and vampire are blinded by the light. Francis has his tail curled tightly around Arthur’s body, trapping all of his limbs except for one arm. Arthur is using that one bit of freedom to claw at Francis face and shove his head back, baring his neck to Arthur’s exposed fangs. Francis’ fangs are visible too, biting into the hand on his face. Both of them are covered in bloody scratches and punctures.

“Let him go, Francis,” Matthew calmly commands. “We’ve got it from here.”

“He’ll run if I do,” Francis replies.

“I will not!”

“He’ll turn to shadows and disappear to haunt some other town!”

“No, he won’t,” says Alfred. He shifts his aim to the exposed part of Arthur’s leg and shoots. Arthur shrieks and Francis instantly recoils, allowing the vampire to drop to the ground.

“What in the hell did you do that for?” Arthur snaps. “I told you I’d cooperate!”

Alfred crouches down on his front legs while Matthew goes to Francis. “Sorry about that, Mr. Kirkland. Just wasn’t feeling like you were the trustworthy type. You’ll heal quick from a gunshot anyway – well, in about 24 hours or so. See, I had my friend the undertaker coat some of my bullets in dead man’s blood.”

Arthur pales impossibly further, his skin taking on a sickly orange hue in the torchlight. “You poisoned me.”

“You attacked my friend,” Alfred replies.

“I did no such thing. He’s the one who came after me, dropped down from those rafters and…” Arthur sighs. “Never mind. You’re not going to believe me. I know how justice works out here, and it isn’t friendly to outsiders, especially outsiders like me.”

“You’ll have your day in court,” Alfred promises. He shackles Arthur’s arms behind him, then hauls the man up and over his back. The vampire groans, but otherwise remains still. Dead man’s blood renders him virtually powerless.

“Some of these look pretty deep, Alfred,” Matthew calls. He’s planted the torch in the dirt so he can use both hands to press a scrap of cloth against Francis’ neck.

“We’d better get Katya, then. We’ll take them both to the jailhouse, then I’ll run to the Braginski’s,” says Alfred.

“The jailhouse?” Francis asks.

“Fair is fair, no matter what Mr. Kirkland thinks of us,” Alfred replies.

“We can get you treated faster if Miss Braginski only has to make one trip,” Matthew says gently. He helps Francis get his tail back under him and slings one of the naga’s arms over his shoulders.

“Fair is fair,” Francis quietly agrees. His tongue flickers, clearing a bit of blood off of his lip.

XXX

True to Alfred’s word there is a trial, but Arthur wasn’t entirely wrong in his assessment of western justice. The trial ends quickly after Francis’ testimony. To their credit, Alfred and Matthew also presented a great deal of evidence. They even found money, land deeds, and another letter belonging to the original victim in Arthur’s room at the inn. Although Arthur maintains his innocence, he is sentenced to be exposed to the sun.

Alfred can’t sleep the entire night before the execution, and neither can Matthew. They don’t like this part of the job. They spend the night at the jailhouse playing cards with Arthur. They can’t offer him a last meal since consistent dosing with dead man’s blood is the only thing preventing the vampire’s escape, but they do their best to make him comfortable, even if he is a murderer. Arthur doesn’t seem to be particularly upset about his own impending demise; merely resigned.

Not long before sunrise there’s a knock on the door. Alfred leaves Matthew in the back with Arthur and goes to answer, one hand on his gun. He drops his hand immediately when he sees the naga on the other side.

“Francis? What are you doing here?”

Francis’ face is grim and his arms are crossed, closed off in a way that Alfred has never seen before. “I want to talk to him.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” says Alfred, glancing at the bandage on Francis’ throat.

“He’s not going to hurt me,” says Francis. “You have him drugged and caged, and the sun will be here soon enough.”

“Still…”

“Please, Alfred. This is my last chance to speak to the man who nearly killed me. There are some things that need to be said, privately, before I can let this go. I don’t want him or I to take them to the grave,” Francis says.

With a sigh, Alfred relents. He steps aside so that Francis can slither past him, warm scales brushing up against Alfred’s fur. He leads Francis to the back. Matthew is still standing opposite Arthur’s cell, shuffling cards. When he spots Francis, the cards stop moving.

“I’d like to speak to Mr. Kirkland alone,” says Francis.

“Come to mock me, have you?” says Arthur.

Francis shakes his head. “Nothing of the sort. Spare me ten minutes, at least. It’s not like you’ve any other meetings to attend.”

“Actually, I believe these boys have set up an appointment for me. However, I’ve a thing or two to say to you as well,” says Arthur. “If you’d be so kind as to give us the room, gentlemen?”

Matthew raises an eyebrow. “Alright. We’ll be right outside. Shout if there’s…anything.”

“I’ll give a call if he tries to murder me before you can,” says Arthur.

“Don’t be unfair, Mr. Kirkland. Our hands are tied by the law,” Alfred replies.

“Ah yes; from my perspective you are clearly the ones behind bars,” says Arthur, caustic sarcasm dripping from his fangs. “But never mind, time’s running short. You’ll have to take your poker winnings from what you send back to my business associates.”

“You won, actually,” says Matthew.

“Did I? Better go count it out, then, and burn it with me.”

Shooed out of their own jailhouse, Alfred and Matthew close the door between the cells and the sheriff’s office.

“I don’t like this,” Matthew says. “I don’t like it at all.”

“I know. But Kirkland’s already killed once. We can’t let him do it again, not in our town or any other,” Alfred replies.

Matthew lets out a sigh that expands both sets of lungs, flowing from the big ones beneath his withers to those up in his humanoid chest. “I know. It’s just-”

There’s a clatter of hooves outside and a whinny just outside their door. Then, for the second time that morning, comes a heavy knock and an unexpected shout, “Sheriff! Deputy!”

“ _Braginski?!_ ” Alfred pulls the door open. Sure enough, Ivan stands on their front porch, the black stallion behind him not even tied to the post. “What’s going on? Is something wrong?”

Ivan doesn’t wait for an invitation. He pushes past Alfred on his way inside. “We’ve made a mistake – or we might have. Is the vampire still alive?”

“Yeah,” says Alfred. “Why?”

“I think he was telling the truth. You recall I took measurements yesterday for his coffin?” says Ivan.

“Sure, even though we all told you it was a waste of time. They’ll be nothing left to burry but ashes,” says Alfred.

“It’s my job, regardless. I noticed the bites on his hands,” says Ivan.

Matthew nods. “He can’t heal them. That’s thanks to the dead man’s blood you’ve been supplying us.”

“Katya told me those bites were thanks to Mr. Bonnefoy,” Ivan replies.

“Yes, because he was fighting for his life!” says Alfred. “You’d do the same, any of us would.”

“Including Mr. Kirkland?” says Ivan.

Alfred’s eyes narrow. “What are you getting at?”

“Exactly what I started with: Mr. Kirkland may have been telling the truth. With the trial done and Mr. Kirkland’s execution set, I thought it high time to put Mr. H.R.E to rest. Natalia only just finished his final suit, and Katya was helping me to dress him. She said it was strange, how the marks on his neck looked just like the ones on the vampire’s hands. I looked again, and she was right: Two deep punctures, six smaller ones on either side. The ones on Mr. Kirkland’s hands were less careful and clean, of course, but the pattern was the same. The one who bit Mr. E. was not a vampire. They were a _snake._ ”

Alfred steps back, his hind legs upsetting a chair. “No. That can’t be right.”

“This is why it is best not to trust your friends,” says Ivan, almost gently.

“But the victim was drained of blood!” Matthew exclaims. “Nagas are carnivores, but they don’t drink blood like that.”

“Alfred said there was not enough evidence at the scene. No prints, no blood. Perhaps he was drained elsewhere and moved by someone with no feet,” Ivan says.

“No! There’s no reason Francis would just…! We’ve known him for years!” Alfred realizes he’s shouting and glances at the door. But the voices on the other side are caught up in an argument of their own. Alfred and Matthew move closer, ears swiveling until they can catch the words.

_“You killed my sister.”_

_“No, I didn’t! She killed herself.”_

_“Because of YOU!”_

_“I never meant for her to die. Quite the opposite, you know. When I turned her, I meant for her to live. I never thought she’d…”_

_“You didn’t give her a choice. Joan knew she was sick and her time was short, and she accepted it. She never wanted to live as a monster.”_

_“You don’t need to be like me to be a monster, as you’ve so artfully proven. Are you satisfied?”_

_“No. She’s still gone, along with the rest of my home. I know I can’t bring Joan back, but I can send you to join her. You’ll burn at sunrise. You’ll know what she felt, and finally her soul will rest.”_

_“Perhaps mine will as well. I can’t say I’m pleased by the prospect of my execution, but I’ve lived a long time. If I’m bound for hell at least I know now that I’ll see you there. You killed a man, Bonnefoy. Now that you’ve had a taste of fresh blood, do you really think you’ll be able to stop?”_

_“How crass. We naga have no addiction to it.”_

_“You killed for vengeance, then, while I’ve only ever killed for survival. I bet you didn’t even drink all that blood. What a waste; a full-grown man would’ve sustained me for days.”_

_“On the contrary. I did all this not for my own survival, but for the survival of this town. If I hadn’t killed that man, he would have sold this place to you.”_

A cold hand nudges Alfred out of his horrified stupor. He looks up at Ivan, surprised to see sympathy on the man’s face. “I believe that was a confession.”

“Right. I…right.” Alfred has always pictured himself as the type of sheriff who kicks down doors and lassos criminals. Instead, he knocks. The argument cuts off instantly, and when Alfred eases the door open both the murderer and the victim are staring at him. Arthur’s expression is still a mask of grim acceptance, while Francis’ face is flushed.

“Is it time, then?” Francis asks.

“Is it true?” Matthew counters quietly.

Francis frowns. “Is what true?”

“What you told him,” says Matthew, nodding towards Arthur. “Are you the one who killed the man at the train station?”

Behind the bars, Arthur laughs. “Well, well, so much for the freedom of the wild west. You can’t even trust the lawmen in this town not to eavesdrop.”

Francis’ tongue darts out to taste the tension in the air. “I…”

“Don’t lie,” Alfred growls. “Mr. Braginski is here too, and he has more evidence. There’s a match between the victim’s bite and the one you gave Mr. Kirkland.”

Francis sighs. “More fool I, then. But if you heard that then you heard the rest, and all of it is true. This vampire is here to suck the life out of our town, and many others.”

“That doesn’t make it right, Francis, no matter what you think he’s done. You killed an innocent man,” says Matthew.

“No, I didn’t,” Francis hisses. “I was surprised no one recognized the initials on the letters. His full name was Heinz Roman Emmerich. He owned the land this town is built on, and he was ready sell us out. And why? Because we’re standing on oil, and this vampire wants to suck us dry.”

Alfred’s eyes widen. “Oil?”

Arthur licks his lips and grins. “Blood of mother earth. I can hear it rushing through her veins just as clearly as I can hear your hearts beat. Mr. Emmerich stood to make a fortune. Poor chap fell on some hard times, from what I hear, and was looking to impress his sweetheart. The land goes to her – or perhaps to the state. Either way, all you’ve done for this town is bought it some more time.”

“It’s enough to give us a chance, and at least to keep the people here from destitution,” says Francis. He turns to Alfred and Matthew, his eyes a piercing reptilian blue that roots them in place. “I know all of this because that’s exactly what happened when I was a child. A vampire called Arthur Kirkland came to our town, a gentleman so charming that he wasn’t driven out even after he sold it. Then his partners came in and forced us out of our homes, tore down farms and stores to make way for the huge metal fangs they sunk into the ground. My family starved. My sister got sick. And when we begged for help, this _monster_ stole her away and drank her drier than our town.”

“I was trying to save her life!” Arthur shouts. “You asked for my help, and I gave her the only cure!”

“She let herself burn the next day!” Francis snarls, baring his teeth and raising himself higher on his tail. Alfred and Matthew flinch back, forcing Ivan behind them. Both of them have one hand on their guns. Francis sighs and lowers his belly to the floor again. “That’s the truth. Now you must choose what to do with it. Joan is at peace and you, at least, know what’s coming for us. I’ll go to the gallows willingly, if that’s your verdict.”

“What about you, Mr. Kirkland? Is all of that true?” Matthew asks.

Arthur rubs a hand over his face, displaying the bandage wrapped around the evidence of Francis’ fangs. “If you can separate the facts from his emotional tirade, yes. I’m too old to beg for my life or promise to never darken your door again. You boys are going to have to decide for yourselves what it is you _really_ care about: justice, or your town?”

Alfred glances over his shoulder at the undertaker, who has been listening to everything. Ivan smiles and shakes his head. “Don’t look to me for answers, sheriff. It doesn’t matter if you burn the vampire or hang the snake. I’m willing to look either way, so long as death gets its due.”

“I…” Alfred looks between the vampire, a blight on his town but an innocent man, and the naga, an old friend and a murderer. Behind them, the barred window of the jailhouse brightens, bringing with it the whistle of the early train. It’s sunrise.


End file.
